


Not Quite Done

by theroguesgambit



Series: Sex Shoes [2]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Blow Jobs, M/M, PWP, with feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-22
Updated: 2014-10-22
Packaged: 2018-02-22 03:18:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,272
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2492510
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theroguesgambit/pseuds/theroguesgambit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles and Derek might be stretching the definition of "once and done" just a little bit. But this is their fist time having sex on Derek's front porch, isn't it?</p><p>Totally within the rules.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Not Quite Done

**Author's Note:**

> I was just itching for a sequel. Can be read alone without much trouble - all you have to know is Stiles & Derek agreed to have sex once to get it out of their systems... and might have only ended up making things worse.

Derek has him back against the Jeep almost the second Scott’s motorcycle screams out of view. Isaac and Scott had gone off together, something about catching a movie, or maybe grabbing lunch. They’d invited Stiles along, which normally he would have jumped at. Isaac has been stealing an awful lot of Scott Time lately, enough to make Stiles (in a totally normal, non-possessive, best friend of over 10 years and totally secure in that relationship kind of way) a little twitchy.

But this time Stiles hadn’t thought before begging out of it, thoughts filled with Derek and the heat in his eyes and the memory of his touch and those goddamn _sex shoes_. Scott had just nodded as he’d feigned homework or a family dinner or who the hell _remembers_ what he’d ended up saying… because Derek is all over him, hot and _here_ and how is Stiles supposed to think when he’s doing that thing with his tongue?

That thing, _god_ he’d missed that tongue thing. Fucking in and out fast, dominating and sliding just at the edge of uncontrolled, like he’s been aching for this, wanting it as much as Stiles has.

He groans into Derek’s mouth, clutching at his jaw helplessly, smoothing clumsily down the stubble with desperately raking thumbs. Too caught up in sensation to do anything but take what Derek’s giving him.

And Derek’s _good_ at giving.

He grips at Stiles’ nape, tilting his head and kissing harder, _deeper_ , leaving Stiles shuddering.

“I wanted this,” Derek’s pulled back enough to growl against him, teeth trailing across Stiles’ jaw. “Knew if I touched you again, wouldn’t be able to stop.”

“Don’t stop,” Stiles hears himself breathing back, voice thin and needy, too needy but he can’t worry about that right now. “Why would you stop, who the fuck asked you to stop?”

Derek’s mouth is at his ear now and Stiles arches, twists to press right into his bared teeth. Derek snarls against him.

Awesome. _Perfect_.

“Once and done, right?”

Derek’s teasing him _now_? Seriously?

“You planning on stopping?”

Stiles’ hands have found their way under Derek’s shirt, smoothing fast and frantic up his sides, shoving the fabric out of the way so he can dig into all that muscle with short nails. Derek’s hips jerk, slamming into Stiles so hard the Jeep groans with the force of the motion, but then he’s leaning back, breaking the kiss. Stiles whines and tries to follow him, remembering even as he moves that he should be trying to play this just the slightest bit cool.

But he can’t, ok? He _wants._

Derek lets out a soft laugh, hands leaving Stiles’ hips to catch Stiles’ own, thumbs trailing across his fingers soothingly even as he drags them back from their battle against his stubborn Henley.

“Right here?”

Right _anywhere_. Right now. It’s been two fucking weeks and that’s two weeks too long.

Derek seems to find the answer somewhere in his face, his lips curling. Stiles tries to tamp down on whatever raw need is screaming through him because, yeah, maybe Derek had liked screwing him enough to want to come back for seconds, but Stiles could mess this up any minute by acting too desperate for it.

They’d signed up for sex here, not needy, emotional hangups.

Stiles lifts his chin, searching for words to salvage things, to help him play this cool. But Derek just shoots him another grin, teeth gleaming, and strips out of his shirt in one smooth motion.

Shirtless Derek.

Right there. In the yard.

A brow arches as Stiles fights and fails not to stare.

Chill out eyes. He _knows_ Derek has good abs. This isn’t news.

Stiles clears his throat, pointedly _doesn’t_ run his hands (or tongue) up the muscled plains in front of him, quirking his brows right back at Derek instead.

“Your bed,” he says firmly. “We’re going to your bed. And you’d better have some sort of actual bed and not just a pile of old rags and leaves or something because I’m gonna be doing things to you you’re really gonna want a bed for.”

Derek’s eyes go hot and dark, and it’s hard to tell in the sunlight but Stiles thinks he sees a glint of red in them. He moves back a slow step, slipping his thumbs through Stiles’ belt loops, and tugs him back toward the burnt shell of the house Derek still insists on coming back to time and again, even as he settles into the new loft.

Stiles definitely doesn’t stumble in his rush to follow Derek forward, and _definitely_ isn’t saved from a faceplant by a decidedly smirking werewolf.

“Is that so,” Derek says, a few beats late. His voice sounds so easy, teasing in a way he hasn’t sounded in… well, in two weeks. Not since the first time they’d done this and he’d, in the muddled aftermath of ‘once and done,’ retreated to treating Stiles like he was more or less an unfortunate side effect of wanting to keep Scott around.

Stiles can admit it now: it had been hell.

But it’s like there’d been a trampoline at the bottom of that pit of misery he’d tumbled into, because as far as he’d fallen, he's bouncing back up just as high now.

(Except… gravity would keep him from bouncing up as high as he’d gone down, and that’s way too convoluted a metaphor anyway, and what the _hell_ is he doing even thinking about this because Derek’s stopped retreating again long enough to tug their bodies back together, kissing hard and grinding so sweet against him, and all Stiles wants to do is climb him right here, wrap his legs around those hips and let Derek slide into him right here in the yard.)

He makes a frantic noise against Derek’s mouth, feels his own shirt being dragged upward, and Derek shoves Stiles back just long enough to tug it free and drop it carelessly to the grass.

Stiles blinks after it.

“Dude, we’re such a cliché right now. We’re literally scattering clothes all the way from the car to th—uhn…”

Derek has him by the hips again, pulling him in so fast he stumbles over his own fallen shirt, the traitor… Except maybe not, because Derek lets out a frustrated sound when Stiles tumbles against his chest and just lifts him up like he weighs nothing and god, _yes_ , thank you shirt, it’s always been his favorite shirt.

Stiles’ legs clench around Derek’s waist and it’s so close, so close to his daydreams except there’s all this fucking _denim_ in the way. Shirts are awesome, they know how to get gone when they need to. Jeans suck, apparently don’t know how to take a fucking hint.

“Less clothes less clothes _right now_.”

Derek snorts against his collar, nipping at his throat, and there’s a pressure behind Stiles suddenly, a hard, cool stretch of wall, allowing Derek to rock into him harder, give Stiles more leverage than his legs alone could manage.

“You’re ridiculous,” Derek breathes, and Stiles almost thinks there might be fondness buried in there, not just open mockery and lust. “Thought we were being too cliché.”

Stiles arches his shoulders back against the wall so he can drive himself more thoroughly against Derek, so fast and hard any normal person would’ve stumbled. Derek holds his ground, letting out a breathy sound, slamming back into Stiles just as brutally. Fuck, his thighs are gonna be aching tomorrow.

They’re on the porch, he realizes dimly. Rutting against each other on the burnt porch of the Hale house, inches from the still open door and inside is _right there_ but right there still isn’t here and Stiles needs this now, needs this like breathing.

“Don’t care if this is a scene from a goddamn Nicholas Sparks movie. We’ll check this off our list. Outside sex. Public sex… sort of. Sex against a wall, just… Derek... _Derek._ ”

Derek’s eased up on their grinding, pressure lessening and Stiles wants to whine, wants to press in harder, because rough, dominating wall sex _might_ just be a major kink of his, might have been a fantasy of his ever since Derek appeared in his room back in February and slammed him up against his own door.

But fingers are slipping beneath the line of Stiles’ jeans, and he spares a moment to thank god he’s wearing something loose and not the crazy hot, miserably uncomfortable looking skin-tight jeans Derek favors, because if he had been there’s no way Derek would be able to get his hand beneath the material, squeeze strong fingers into his ass and then… _fuck_ yes, slide sideways enough to rub an index finger between his cheeks.

This had been Stiles’ least favorite part of things last time, the awkward feeling of fingers going where No Fingers Had Gone Before. The early, painful stretch and the strange sensation of fullness. But now, knowing what comes next, knowing what it feels like to have his insides caressed, _pounded_ , knowing the throbbing heat of Derek filling him… everything awkward from that first time around has transformed into sweet anticipation. Stiles finds himself shuddering from the barest brush of that finger, the promise of what comes after.

He’s painfully hard, probably won’t make it much past this raw grinding. He should try to get Derek to slow down, try to slow _himself_ down.

But Stiles has never been good at doing things halfway.

“Right there, right there. _More._ Fuck, Derek, get inside me…”

“Thought you wanted to get to a bed.”

“Hey, I’m flexible,” Stiles says without thinking, and then chokes because that was either a really smooth line or a painfully bad one. Judging by Derek’s expression, it’s some mixture of the two, or maybe Derek’s just willing to forgive Stiles’ unbearably bad dirty talk because he wants him so badly.

The idea’s strangely thrilling.

“You’re just easily distracted,” Derek tosses back after a few too many seconds. His finger edges inside Stiles, dry and painful and soso _so_ good, and Stiles squeezes his eyes shut against it, breath catching.

“Can’t argue that. What were we talking about?”

“More verbal this time,” Derek muses, sounding way too goddamn unaffected, but Stiles refocuses his hazy vision long enough to shoot him a scowl and finds his eyes heavy and dark, undeniably glinting red now as his nostrils flare out, breathing in every bit of Stiles’ wanting.

Stiles hisses out a breath, unhooks his legs and drops slowly to the ground. Derek’s cocky expression flickers, hand faltering, but Stiles just slides his hands from Derek’s shoulders to his own waist, unbuttoning his jeans and sliding the zipper down.

“Maybe that means you’re not working hard enough.”  

He means it to be a challenge, but he doesn’t expect Derek to rise to it so readily, snarling out a breath that should probably intimidate Stiles… and ok, maybe it does a little, but only because Derek’s dropping to his knees and dragging Stiles’ jeans and briefs halfway down his thighs in one rough motion, and you try not being a little bit intimidated when an honest to god werewolf is baring his teeth and snarling that close to your junk.

“ _Fine._ ”

Then Derek’s grabbing under Stiles’ thighs, tugging him upward so fast he gets a panicked notion of being thrown straight off the porch (crap, had he pissed Derek off that badly?) but Derek’s just swinging Stiles’ legs up over his shoulders and _ohgod_ he’s _sitting_ on Derek’s shoulders now, back braced against the wall while Derek buries his face right into Stiles’ groin.

For a second that’s it – he just settles in there, nestling his nose into the coarse hairs of his navel and breathing deep. Stiles finds his own hands gripping Derek’s hair for balance, for purchase, just because he fucking _can_ , and he tries to keep his hips from rolling because Derek’s face is right there and that’s not exactly polite really, is it? Even if the sensation of Derek’s heavy, snuffing breaths is driving him crazy in a way it probably shouldn’t, because he should maybe be finding this weird, right? Derek just… smelling him. That’s not, like, _normal_ , is it? It’s not like it really smells all that great down there.

But whatever, no time for self-doubt, because Derek seems to be enjoying himself and Stiles isn’t in any kind of mood to stop him. Like, ever.

Except he so is, ‘cause he needs more. He needs more yesterday. Needs more like two weeks ago.

Derek’s too dry finger is teasing against his hole again, and he’s starting to mouth along Stiles’ navel, lips dragging, the barest tips of teeth scraping across the sensitive skin there. His thumb slides to tease along Stiles’ balls almost idly, and Stiles thinks maybe he’s murmuring encouragements, maybe he’s sobbing out curses, maybe it’s just twisting into an endless stream of “moremoremoreDerek” because Derek’s being a fucking tease and he knows it, the gleaming red glint in his eyes _says_ he knows it, the faint chuckling exhales across Stiles’ hipbones.

Stiles is seated on a kneeling, shirtless Derek’s shoulders, on Derek’s burnt-out porch, with Derek’s hand teasing against his ass, his mouth trailing ever closer to Stiles’ aching cock.

How had this become his day, seriously?

And then Derek makes a faint noise, a pained wordless grumble, and he’s dropping his forehead against Stiles’ thigh. His hand moves away from Stiles’ ass, both of them going to slide up his thighs and clenching like he’s afraid of Stiles slipping away.

Even though… where the hell would Stiles go? Where the hell is _Derek_ going?

“What you do to me…” It comes out low, muffled, almost inaudible against Stiles’ thigh.

Stiles manages a noise, a sort of wavering whimper that goes high at the end. Questioning.

Because why why _why_ is Derek stopping? Derek’s eyes flit up, dark pupils the size of quarters, just the barest crimson gleam rimming them.

 _Rimming_ them.

Fuck, Stiles’ brain will never have a chance of functioning from this position.

“We can’t do this here,” Derek’s murmuring. “The pack will smell it the second they get back.”

Stiles thinks maybe he imagines the hot glint in Derek’s eyes at that, tries to fight the way his whole body goes tense and shivery at the thought. The risk of discovery. His thighs definitely _don’t_ clench a little harder around Derek’s shoulders. If a fresh flood of precome starts beading up on his cock, it’s only because of Derek’s breath panting over it.

Ground rules: never, ever tell anyone. That had been clear from before the first time.

…Ok, so this whole secret affair thing might be a serious kink of his too.

His mouth is so goddamn dry. His words break a little coming out.

“We’re outside, it’ll air out fast.”

Derek’s tongue is flicking over his lips, his eyes raking hot down Stiles’ flushed body to his dick, right there in front of him. A slight tilt of the head away.

“The smoke will probably drown out the scent anyway.”

It sounds so reasonable. So much more reasonable than _please don’t stop Christ I don’t think I could survive you stopping before you get your mouth on me._ And Derek’s sort of nodding to himself, his hands shifting a little as they massage hard little circles into Stiles’ thighs.

“They’ll be gone for hours,” Stiles breathes, going for practical, maybe. Coming out too low and husky and unbearably shaky.

And then Derek’s mouth is on him, tongue licking out to taste the trail of precome beading up. Stiles’ whole body jerks, hips jutting out before he can think to stop them. And the last thing he sees before his eyes roll shut is Derek’s own locked on his cock with focused, predatory intent.

Then all he can do is _feel_. The cool, rough wood against his back as he arches against it, Derek’s hands gripping bruise-hard into his thighs, his own clenching so hard into Derek’s hair, pressing back into the wall behind him for balance, fingers clenching, scrabbling against the rough wood for something to steady him as Derek takes him deep and starts sucking, lapping, _bobbing_ fast and sloppy and Stiles can’t even keep track of what he’s doing, too focused on the shocks and starts it sends rocking through him.

He’d thought maybe it would be easier the second time doing this, that he’d be more prepared for it now that he knew what it felt like, but a few seconds in and he’s every bit as lost as he was the first time. His head lolls back, eyes opening hazily to take in the forest and his Jeep and the shirts strewn across the open lawn, drift down to Derek’s dark head moving fast along his length, feels the hands sliding back to grasp his ass again, urging his hips forward to meet him in little, restless bobs.

 _Fuck_ , he wants a picture of this. A video of this. A full-time, life-sized replica of this.

...He wants Derek, ok? He wants Derek, and this, maybe always.

“Click,” he murmurs, a little weakly, and Derek’s eyes flit up to find his. Brow arching even as his tongue finds Stiles’ slit and starts working at it in fast little bone-melting feather-touches. Stiles moans, and grins, tugging a little at Derek’s hair just ‘cause he can. “Kodak moment,” he offers, and Derek snorts right into his crotch.

“I don’t think that’s meant for situations like this.”

Sure it is. Stiles wants Derek always; what’s more heartwarming than that? He swallows down some really stupid comeback – because once and done, right? Even if they’re sort of stretching the definition of the word “once” – and runs a thumb down Derek’s jaw before tugging his hair again, guiding him back to his cock.

Derek holds his eyes, brows furrowing a little, as his mouth parts and takes him in deep again.

He comes a few moments later, shouting wordlessly to the trees and the sky and to _Derek_ , who swallows Stiles down (which means minimized sex smells, isn’t Derek clever) and pulls away breathless, resting his head back against Stiles’ thigh and pressing little kisses into the bruised skin.

And then Stiles is sliding back, off his shoulders, tripping down to his knees and tugging Derek into a slow, deep kiss that probably says way too much. But Stiles is come-drunk and everyone knows the things you say right after you’re given ridiculously good head don’t matter anyway, so he doesn’t bother holding back from the “fucking amazing, you’re fucking _amazing_ , let’s do that always Derek” that comes spilling out.

Derek’s grinning against him, still keyed up and still hasn’t come yet, hard and hot against Stiles’ thigh. He hasn’t even gotten his goddamn sex shoes off – and what’s the point of them then, seriously? That’s not even slightly acceptable. And then he’s twisting away from the kiss, gets his lips against Stiles’ ear to breathe: “Have to come up with something new next time. Once and done, right?”

But he nips at the lobe playfully, acting almost come-drunk himself, and Stiles is grinning ear to ear.

Yeah, so maybe Stiles is kind of stretching the definition of “once and done,” but he’s definitely not the only one doing it. And he has the whole internet to come up with new ideas.

They could keep on going like this forever if they wanted.

He kisses Derek again – slower, softer, and Derek whines against him before pulling back.

“I think you said something about a bed?”

**Author's Note:**

> [Come find me on Tumblr](http://halekingsourwolf.tumblr.com)


End file.
